


wish we could turn back time (to the good ol' days)

by Taste_of_Bitterness



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, Fluffy-ish, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, i also threw in bisexual Henry because hell yeah, idk - Freeform, like it gets kinda depressing idk man, sorta angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:24:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5561656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_of_Bitterness/pseuds/Taste_of_Bitterness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abe gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded,” he said. “But no. I trust you. I do, however, want something small.” He took a step closer to Henry, looking apprehensive. Suspicion rose like blood in Henry's throat. “A holiday party.” </p><p>Henry blinked. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>In which Abe makes Henry invite all his friends to a Christmas party and nobody goes. Except Jo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wish we could turn back time (to the good ol' days)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Majikthise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majikthise/gifts).



> Thank you so much for the prompt, Majikthise. It's been a while since I've written fanfiction, and this was so much fun. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)

Henry Morgan was born in Greenwich, London. The irony of that struck him when he was fresh out of Southwark prison, and remembered that the time of all other time zones were calculated around the, previously, small town. 

He may have been alive for over 200 years since his first death, which some would argue was plenty of time to come to terms with the fact he was immortal. But the fact was that Henry Morgan was constantly surprised by time. By the way time was organized. By the brevity of second, the briefness of minutes, the speeding by of hours and days and years and- centuries. 

Henry Morgan always had the heavy, gold watch weighing down his pocket. But it seemed that today he was the only one. New York City was bustling with thousands of people and it was almost funny that the person who time affected the less was the only one with a clock in their pocket.

Jo Martinez didn’t wear a watch. He remembered being surprised by that fact when he first saw her. Bags under her eyes, cracks in her lips, a pale circle on her finger, and a heaviness on her shoulders. Henry saw himself in that moment, reflected across decades and previous lovers. He remembered losing Abigail. He remembered constantly holding that pocket watch, unable to tear his eyes from the time passing, passing. Knowing she was dying without him. Knowing that even if she was with him, she’d be dying. 

Jo’s husband was dead. She didn’t wear a watch. It was startling. 

 

Abraham was standing by the kitchen, a smile on his face. Henry smiled back but all he could think was how old his son looked and how wrong that was. Some days, all he could think was the fluidity of humanity, the promise of change that Henry missed out on. 

“It’s almost Christmas,” Abe said. 

“Is it?” Henry could remember Christmas as a child. He could remember the floorboards beneath his stockinged feet and the windy drafts in the hall as he raced towards the room he knew his mother would be in with cold roast beef and buttered rolls and hot chocolate. Then, later, Christmas with Nora. Simple; just a day of soft smiles, prayer, and small presents. 

The first Christmas after he’d died and came back and decided God couldn’t possibly exist under the circumstances was painful. It didn’t help that it was spent in prison. 

Abraham and Abigail had brought life back to Christmas. Shedding trees and worn fabric angels, and paper ornaments Abe had made in school. Red Holland stopping by with his signature grin and salute to Abe. 

He hadn’t celebrated Christmas since Abigail left him. No reason to.

“Hey, old man.” Abe interrupted Henry’s memories with a wink. “Up and at them. It’s time for the present. Heh. Present.” 

“Thank you for reminding me,” Henry said, completely ignoring Abe’s last words.

“No problem. I know you tend to forget what month it is.” 

Henry Morgan rolled his eyes. “Did you want something specific for Christmas, then? Since you only talk to me if you want something.”

Abe gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded,” he said. “But no. I trust you. I do, however, want something small.” He took a step closer to Henry, looking apprehensive. Suspicion rose like blood in Henry’s throat. “A holiday party.” 

Henry blinked. “What?”

“This Saturday, before Christmas. You could invite Jo! Even that Larry guy who works for you.”

“Lucas,” Henry corrected automatically. And that gave him pause. Lucas Wahl. For the first couple weeks, when Lucas was new and dropping all the tools, Henry had been sure the young man’s name was Larry. Now, he knew Lucas was Lucas, and Lucas’s last name was Wahl, and he read graphic novels, loved his job, and really wanted to be the first person in the office to get Henry out of scrubs and in a bar. 

As loath as he was to admit it, Lucas was a friend. Henry hadn’t had any real friends besides his son for such a long time. He hadn’t had so many since before his first death. It was, actually, quite nice. Jo and Hanson and Reece and Lucas were good people, honest people. Would it really be such a chore to have them over?

“Sure,” Henry said, and smiled at Abraham’s open mouth. “Why not? Let’s have a Christmas party.” 

 

Henry asked Lucas first, assuming it to be a guaranteed yes. Lucas seemed to be a little in love with Henry at times, and would no doubt be pleased to spend a day at his home. To his surprise, Lucas said no. 

“I’m so sorry, Doctor Morgan! I’d really, really like to come but my mom always likes me to come up a couple days earlier so our family can get all re-acquainted and they can boast about me being a doctor even though I’ve told her several times that I’m not a doctor; just an assistant medical examiner. Doctor sounds better though, so I understand her reasoning--”

“Okay, Lucas,” Henry managed to blurt out when the man finally paused for air. “That sounds very nice, and I hope you have fun. We’ll miss you, of course.”

Lucas looked back down at the cadaver and smiled brightly. 

 

Henry didn’t ask Joanna Reece. He’d started for her office when she looked up from a pile of paperwork and gave him the most chilling look he’d received so far in the twenty-first century. Then he remembered his public indecency charge from only three weeks ago and decided it’d be best to avoid the woman until after the holiday season passed. 

Instead, he veered off towards Mike Hanson’s desk. Hanson had a pile of papers slightly smaller than the Lieutenant's, and the glare he gave Henry spoke more of annoyance than anything else. Henry grinned. 

“Hello, Hanson,” he said. “I was wondering if you were busy this Saturday.”

“Uh.” Mike’s hand jerked, hitting the coffee cup, and it tilted dangerously before he caught it. “I think so. Sorry.”

Henry knew that Hanson thought he was rather ignorant about, well, anything that wasn’t dead. Hanson was a nice guy besides, so Henry let it go, and he’d admit that he tended to ignore most social niceties at this point. It didn’t matter. So he seemed strange and out of touch and oblivious to how to behave properly. Acting normal hadn’t kept Abigail with him. Pretending, Henry knew, didn’t do anything.

But 200 years on this planet and Henry knew how people acted. He knew he got on Hanson’s nerves sometimes and he knew that Hanson’s attitude now was rooted to the fact that he thought Henry was a snob. Enough nights at the bar had got Hanson to tolerate him, even like him to an extent. It didn’t remove his apprehensiveness every time Henry opened his mouth.

“Ah, a shame. Abe and I were just going to throw a Christmas party.” 

“Oh.” Hanson looked surprised, and intrigued. “Who else is going?”

“So far? No one.” His smile caught a glint of self-deprecation, subtle enough for most people not to notice.

“That sucks, bud. But I actually do have something happening on Saturday.” Hanson shrugged. “Taking the kids to Santa last minute. Sorry, Henry.” 

“Whatever for?” Henry asked, picturing young Abe perched on Santa’s lap. Santas at department stores had become popular in 1918 and had grown since then. Despite that, Henry and Abigail had taken Abraham only once. He’d been four, and his cheeks had been glowing with a childlike glee, hair wild from the hat that’d been pulled off seconds before he’d clambered onto Santa’s lap. Abigail hadn’t taken the picture, hadn’t taken any of the pictures, when she left. It was still there, in the photo album, nestled between a picture of Abe in Henry’s arms and Abe with his arms wrapped tight around Abigail’s legs. 

Henry blinked, coming out of the trance of memories that seemed to take over him on the hourly basis. Mike Hanson was giving him a weird look, though there was a relatively new flash of worry in there that had never been there before when Henry zoned out. Henry smothered a grin, waved, and left.

 

Jo Martinez was the last person he had to ask. Truth be told, he’d been putting it off. She was scary perceptive and that made him unsteady. And in this, his first real Christmas in so long, he didn’t want to slip up and see that look of confusion and pity slide up in her eyes. Didn’t want to see the empathy and remember that she’s lost people too. Of course she has. Everyone has. He knew that, logically. Something about Jo Martinez brought that to life; he wasn’t the only one losing. 

Now, knowing that if she said yes, it’d only be him and her and Abraham, and Abraham would probably be leaving halfway through with a wink and hurried shuffle. And that made Henry…

It made Henry something. Something he hadn’t been since Abigail.

Abraham was giving him looks every morning at breakfast and every night at dinner. The kind of looks where his bushy white eyebrows raised and pressed together and made Henry stop thinking about how his son’s eyebrows have become so white so so soon, and instead wonder how he got so insolent.

The looks were soiling his morning tea and made the butter on his toast taste spoiled. And he’d bet his life (he’d just pop back up anyway, if he was wrong) that Abe was spitting in his food. He ordered take-out Wednesday night.

Thursday morning, it was just too much.

“Fine.” Henry slapped down the paper and folded his hands onto the table in front of him. He frowned heavily at his son. “I’ll do it.”

Abe grinned at him, and took a bite out of a bagel.

 

Henry didn't actually have to do anything since Jo Martinez came to him. She walked into the New York Medical Examiner’s Office, manila folder in her hands. Henry had a strange urge to jump and blush, but Lucas was at his shoulder and would have likely made the connection and Henry really didn’t want to deal with teasing from a man two-hundred-and-something years his junior. 

“Guess who’s got a case,” she said, barely sparing a glance at the body on the table. Big change from her first visit to the office. 

“Ah, finally,” Henry said, already shucking his latex gloves. It’d been two weeks since their last case, which honestly wasn’t that long, but he’d gotten used to constant field work. As much as he loved his job, the office walls got boring quickly. “Where?”

It was some small apartment in a small, dirty neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood Henry tended to like because the past wasn't hidden, but instead displayed, time ripped open like a rib cage.

Jo, on the other hand, had a hesitance about her in these neighborhoods. Probably her past. Henry didn't ask. He knew it was bad.

On the way to the crime scene, Henry finally blurted out the invitation.

"What are you doing this Saturday?" Jo glanced over before refocusing on the road with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Henry?" She teased.

"Oh," he said, trying not to blush. "No. It's for a party. Everyone's invited." He winced. "Well, you'd be the first to accept the invitation. But Abraham will be there."

"Party?" Jo snickered. "You don't seem the type to throw a party."

"Well, you probably don’t know this, but I was quite popular way back when. My parties were legendary." Jo laughed again and Henry sighed. He wasn’t joking. His parties had been. In his early twenties, when he’d trusted his father and trusted the money, he’d been overly extravagant. It was embarrassing to look back on, honestly. "Abe's throwing it together. I'm just in charge of finding people to go. Not that I've been very successful." 

Jo smiled and reached her hand over to touch Henry's shoulder. He couldn't really feel it through his vest but he was still highly aware of it's presence. "Don't worry, Henry. I'll go. Abe won't be able to say you're a complete failure now."

Henry smiled out the windshield. "You don't know how much I appreciate that, Detective Martinez."

 

Abraham has somehow got Henry wrapped up in the apron. It had a bright pink paisley pattern and Abe burst into laughter every time Henry turned the corner, spots of red high on his cheekbones. Henry couldn't point at what exactly kept him from ripping the apron off, but he knew it had something do with the warmth in his chest that masked some of the annoyance whenever Abe started laughing.

That warmth didn't mask much when Abe suddenly walked into the kitchen, Jo on his heels, where Henry was clutching a glass pan in matching pink oven mitts, bent slightly over the oven.

His eyes popped open wide and he immediately straightened, almost throwing the pan onto the stove and tearing everything pink from his body. Jo looked unimpressed and Abe hid a snicker behind his hand.

"Detective," Henry said, his voice cracking up an octave. "You're here early."

Her right eyebrow quirked up. "Actually, I'm late. Distracted by baking?"

Henry tilted up his chin in mock snobbery, smoothing down his vest. "Baking is a very delicate science."

"I'm sure," she said.

 

Dinner went surprisingly well, minus Abe having snuck a sprig of mistletoe over the doorway that Henry had to hop and snatch away before Jo noticed. Minus Abe's comment on Henry being the perfect future wife when Jo practically moaned through her first bite of ham. Minus Abe making subtle innuendos about Henry's celibacy. Minus, Abe, really.

"This is a Christmas party," he'd hissed into Abraham's ear. "It's supposed to be about family."

"But dad, this is my present to you," Abe had smugly replied.

After dinner, Abe had left, claiming the glass of wine he'd sipped throughout the meal was getting to him. Jo wished him a good night and said she hoped he felt better soon. Henry, having seen him down three tumblers of whiskey without a problem just a week ago, knew better.

Jo and Henry sat on the couch, the small TV that Abe had dragged from his room a couple hours before with the claim it made them look normal playing Home Alone in the background.

Jo watched the wine swirl around her glass. Henry perched on the edge of the cushion, two feet away from her, clutching his own glass of wine. The silence squelched awkwardly around them. The lights were dimmed in the room, and there was a pit growing in his stomach as the silence dragged on and on.

"So," she said, and Henry turned towards her, feeling relief. "Is this your first Christmas? Without, you know, Abigail?"

And, boy, that had came out of nowhere. 

Henry just looked at her for a moment, a bit shocked by her just diving right into it. Abe probably hadn’t expected this when he left them. He probably expected less deep conversation and more making out. Henry, in a way, preferred this, because yes it was a dark shift towards a difficult subject for the both of them, but it meant she trusted him. She wanted to talk to him. There was a little disappointment though. He hadn't planned talking about their dead ex-lovers when he'd invited her.

Jo's dark hair waved past her shoulder, and the little mascara she wore had started to clump. Her eyes were focused on the red wine spinning around in her glass. And Henry remembered this was probably her first Christmas without Sean, and knew he couldn't blame her for being unable to be happy tonight.

Henry sighed. "No," he answered. It was far from his first Christmas without Abigail, from even his tenth. Possibly even the fortieth; he’d lost count a while ago. 

"Does it get easier?" Jo wasn’t looking away from the swirling wine, and Henry felt a wave of empathy in him. The first love is always hard. For Henry, it was the third that was the worst, because even though he’d loved Nora and he’d loved James, Abigail was the one who knew all of him, who believed him and trusted him, and who left him. Not that he blamed her.

Henry's hand reached inside his pocket, fingers resting on the cool gold cover, skimming the engraving. He thought of Nora. He thought of his Christmas in Southwark, his head submerged in water, hands like claws on his shoulder. He thought of Abe's body growing lanky as more holidays sped past until he was leaving to war. He thought of Abigail's escape and his first Christmas without her. He thought of leaving that home, that country. Of drifting until just a couple years ago. Finding Abe again and holding him tight. Drinking hot chocolate on Christmas Eve and getting a dot of whipped cream on his nose and Abe's new wrinkles seeming to fade away as the man laughed. 

He thought of the failure of this party, and the fact that Christmas was only a couple days away and he'd barely gotten any presents at all. He looked at Jo, with her tired eyes. The paleness of her ring finger had been tanned over and some weight seemed gone from her shoulders. Her lips weren't chapped anymore, and Henry sometimes thought about kissing them.

Did it get easier? Henry wouldn't know. He rarely let things become easy.

But right now, with the movie on the TV ending and a soft song beginning, with the taste of wine on his tongue, and with the shadows making her look so soft, Henry thought it did seem to get better. So, he answered, "yes, Jo. It does."

She sucked in a quick breath, and pressed a hand to her forehead. "Good," she said. 

"Can I ask you a question, then? Fair trade," Henry said, feeling impulsive, his watch warming against his fingers. 

Jo nodded.

"Why don't you wear a watch?" Right after he asked that, he felt pretty ridiculous. It wouldn’t make sense to her, hell, it didn’t make sense to him. Of course she didn’t wear a watch. Henry, with his obsessions, was an exception to the rule. Nobody else wants to remind themselves that it’s been exactly this long since they lost someone.

She blinked, and set her glass of wine down on the table. Henry copied the movement with his own glass. Jo looked at him for a bit, and Henry felt exposed beneath her stare. "What?"

"Forget it. It was dumb." He shuffled closer to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. Henry had been feeling all over the place this entire dinner. Holidays were weird. He could feel the wine in his system, slowing the firing of the neurons in his brain. Jo was so pretty, and Henry was sort of buzzed, and it was basically Christmas and all he wanted was her. "Merry Christmas, Jo."

She gave a watery smile. "It's four days until Christmas, Henry."

He smiled back. At this point, it didn’t really matter anymore. Days passed strangely, years even more so. Four days until Christmas, ten until the new year hit. So what? There was a theory that time didn’t even exist; everything is constantly happening at the same time. Which meant that it was Christmas and New Year's and Halloween and his birthday and he hadn’t been alive 235 years because years weren’t real. Henry liked that. 

"I don't really care, Detective,” he said. “Time means nothing to me."

**Author's Note:**

> Accidentally got a lot more depressing than I originally intended. I also was going to do more about the actual dinner, but that last conversation was calling to me and I rushed through the dinner to get to it while the inspiration was there. This is a bit of a mess. All well. I had fun. :) 
> 
> Happy Holidays, everyone!


End file.
